1 Preamble

As its title surely indicates, this little book is no more than a sort of postscript to
Narrative Discourse1-a postscript prompted, after ten years, by a critical rereading of
that "essay in method" in light of the commentaries it gave rise to and, more generally,
in light of the advances, or retreats, narratology has registered since then.
The term narratology (proposed by Tzvetan Todorov in 1969), together with the
"discipline" it designates, has in fact gained a little ground (very little) in France, where
nourish-
[Translator s note.] Ithaca: Comell University Press, 1980. English transla-tion of Discours du recit," a portion of Figures
III by Gerard Genette (Paris-beuil, 1972). For the present translation, the author modified the original French text in a
handful of places. My editorial practices in the present volume have been as follows: (i) Brackets in the text are my
interpolation when they enclose a French or English equivalent; specify "in France " "in French," or "in English"; explain
something about the French language- or adjust quoted material to its context. All other brackets in the text are Ge-
nette's. Brackets in the footnotes are my interpolation when they provide a French equivalent; clarify the relationship
between a French text and an English text; explain or identify a reference or comment; adjust quoted mate-rial to its
context; and give supplementary bibliographical information. Un-less otherwise indicated, all other brackets in the notes
are Genette's (2) All ellipsis points are Genette's. (3) When Genette quoted from a work that has appeared m English,
the English text has been quoted directly. (4) All transla-tions of French works quoted by Genette are mine unless
otherwise noted Preamble ment of a more aphrodisiac kind is often preferred. It has gained much more ground in other countries,
including the United States, the Netherlands, and Israel, as the bibliogra-phy at the end of this volume certainly attests.

To some people (including, at times, myself), the success the discipline has achieved is
distressing. What irritates them is its "soulless" and sometimes mindless technicalness
and its pretension to the role of "pilot science" in literary studies. One could easily
counter the mistrust by arguing that, after all, the vast majority of literary (including
poetic) texts are in the narrative mode and that it is therefore proper for nar-rativity to
appropriate to itself the lion's share. But I am well aware that a narrative text can be
viewed from other angles (for example, thematic, ideological, stylistic). The best, or the
worst--in any case, the strongest--justification for the momentary hegemony of
narratology seems to me to derive not so much from the importance of the object as
from narratol-ogy's own degree of maturation and methodological elaboration. A
famous scientist asserted in a flash of wit, at the beginning of this century, I believe:
"There is physics, then there is chemistry, which is a kind of physics, then there is stamp
collecting." No need to specify that Rutherford himself was a physicist, and a British
subject. As we know, since then biology too has become a kind of chemistry, and even
(if I have read Monod aright) a kind of mechanics. If (I say if) every form of knowledge
is indeed situated somewhere be-tween the two poles symbolized by rigorous mechanics
and that blend of empiricism and speculation represented by philately, we can no doubt
observe that literary studies today oscillate between the philately of interpretative
criticism and the mechanics of narratology-a mechanics that, I think, has nothing of a
general philosophy about it but that at its best is distinguished by a respect for the
mechanisms of the text. Even so, I am not claiming that the "progress" of poetics will
consist of a gradual absorption of the entire field by its mechanPreamble ical side. All I
claim is that the respect in question deserves some respect itself, or some attention, even
if only periodi-cally. On leave from narratology (but not from poetics) for more than ten
years, I believe I must return to it for a mo-ment, fulfilling the implied promises or
threats of my "after-word." And I entreat the potential reader to forgive me the traces of
narcissism that such a step will entail. Rereading oneself with an eye on the criticisms
 incurred is a low-risk activity in which one is constantly at liberty to choose among a
triumphant riposte ("I was entirely right"), a not less gratifying apology ("Yes, I was
wrong, and I have the grace to admit it"), and a quite self-congratulatory spontaneous
self-criticism ("I was wrong, no one else noticed, I am truly the best"),
But enough of excuses that are themselves suspect, for self-indulgence has endless
subterfuges.2 Before moving into ac-tion, I give notice only that this present account of
narrative studies will, for the most part, follow the same order as Narra-tive Discourse:
general and preliminary matters (Chapters i-3), matters of tense (4-6), of mood (7-12),
and of voice (13-16), and, finally, subjects not dealt with in Narrative Discourse but that
today seem to me worth examining, if only to justify rejecting them. Thus, honesty
compels me to make explicit what by now has surely become obvious: this book is ad-
dressed only to those people who have read Narrative Dis-course. If you are not among
them and have unsuspectingly come this far, you know what it behooves you to do now.
In these subterfuges, see Philippe Lejeune, "Le Pacte autobiographique (bis)," Actes du He colloque international sur
I'autobiographic . . . (Aix-en-Provence: Presses de 1'Universite de Provence, 1982). Nevertheless, this ex-ercise, which American
critics engage in more readily than we do (see the "Second Thoughts Series" of Novel [i (1967-1968)]), may be more conducive in
the long run to good health than to bad.

2 Foreword
That title, "Discours du recit," was deliberately ambiguous: discourse about narrative, but
also (a study of the) discourse of narrative, the discourse that narrative consists of, a
study (as the English translation elected) of narrative discourse. It was, moreover, even
more ambiguous than I had intended, with that word discours hovering between the
singular and the plural, at least in the second interpretation. Narrative consists less of a
discourse than of some discourses, two or more, whether one thinks of Bakhtin's
dialogism or polylog-ism or, more technically, of the obvious fact (well emphasized by
Lubomir Dolezel, and to which I will return) that narrative consists wholly of two
discourses (one of which-optional- is, itself, almost always multiple): the narrator's
discourse and the characters' discourse(s).
There was another ambiguity, one that the preface fully acknowledged: the duality of
object in an undertaking that refused to choose between the "theoretical" (narrative in
general) and the critical (the Proustian narrative in the Recherche). That duality sprang in
part, as all things do, from circum-stances. I had formed the intention--if I am not
mistaken, during the winter (February to April) of 1969 at New Har-bour, Rhode
Hampshire,1 where I was frequently kept at
'[Geography in the style of Nabokov (see Pale Fire).]

Foreword "home" by snowdrifts-of testing and systematizing some categories that I had
already caught occasional glimpses of/2 by working on the only text available in "my"
house (the three Pleiade volumes of the Recherche) and on the random scraps of a literary
memory that was already somewhat in distress. A way, like any other-and doomed,
indeed, to fail, but I fear that for an instant I had that imp(r)udent preten-sion-of
emulating the manner, the sovereign manner, in which Erich Auerbach, deprived
(elsewhere) of a library, one day wrote Mimesis. May my colleagues at Harkness Univer-
sity, who are justifiably proud of one of the best literary li-braries in the world and who
venture out to it in all kinds of weather, forgive me this doubly incongruous parallel,
which appears here only for the sake of "the true story."
Whatever the reasons for it, that duality of object troubles me more today than it did then.
The systematic recourse to Proustian examples was obviously responsible for certain dis-
tortions: an excessive insistence, for example, on matters of time (order, duration,
frequency), which take up considera-bly more than half the book, or too scant a notice of
phenom-ena of mood whose role in the Recherche is obviously minor, or even nil
(phenomena such as the interior monologue or free indirect discourse). Those drawbacks
are undoubtedly offset by certain advantages: no other text could have high-lighted, as
this one did, the role of the iterative narrative. Besides (is it the specialists' indulgence or
their indifference?), the strictly Proustological aspect of that earlier work has hardly been
challenged-which will allow me to make a readjustment here and direct the gist of my
remarks at matters of a general kind, those that have most engaged the attention of critics.
^'Frontieres du recit," "Vraisemblance et motivation," "Stendhal," "D'un recit baroque," Figures II (Paris: Seuil, 1969). [The first and
third of those essays have been published as "Frontiers of Narrative" and "Stendhal" in Figures of Literary Discourse, trans. Alan
Sheridan (New York: Columbia Uni-versity Press, 1982).]

3 Introduction
I will not return to the distinctions, which today are gener-ally accepted/ between story
(the totality of the narrated events), narrative (the discourse, oral or written, that narrates
them), and narrating (the real or fictive act that produces that discourse-in other words,
the very fact of recounting), except to confirm the parallel often drawn between the
distinction story/narrative [histoire/recit] and the Formalist opposi-tion story/plot
[fable/sujet]. Confirm it, though, with two faint protests. Terminologically, my pair
seems to me more meaningful and more transparent than the Russian pair (or at least
than its French translation), whose terms are so inappropriate that I have just hesitated,
again as always, over which is which. And conceptually, it seems to me that our full
triad gives a better account of the whole of the narrative fact. A two-part division into
story and narrative inevitably annuls the distinction between the phenomena that I assign
further on to mood and to voice. Besides, a story/narrative division is very likely to
produce a misunderstanding, which is in fact prevalent, between that pair and the pair
previously put for-ward by Benveniste-story/discourse [histoire/discours],1
'[Benveniste's English translator rendered "histoire" as "history," but in this context "histoire" has also been rendered as "story" (by
John Pier) and as "narrative (or story)" (by Sheridan). See Emile Benveniste, Problems in General

which, in the meantime, not wrongly but unfortunately, I had rechristened

narrative/discourse [recit/discours] to serve another cause.2
So story/discourse, narrative/discourse, story/narrative-there is plenty here to confuse us
unless we are willing to show respect for contexts and let everyone tend his own cows, or
count his own sheep, which would certainly make narratol-ogy a cure for insomnia. The
Benvenistian distinction story/ discourse, even or especially if revised to
narrative/discourse, is irrelevant at this level; the Formalist pair story/plot belongs, one
may say, to the prehistory of narratology and will no longer be useful to us; as for the pair
story/narrative, it is meaningless unless incorporated into the triad story/narrative/
narrating.
The greatest defect of that triad is its order of presentation, which corresponds to no real
or fictive genesis. In a nonfic^ tional (for example, historical) narrative, the actual order
is obviously story (the completed events), narrating (the narra-tive act of the historian),
narrative (the product of that act, potentially or virtually capable of surviving it in the
form of a written text, a recording, or a human memory). As a matter of fact, only this
remanence justifies our regarding narrative as posterior to the narrating. Narrative in its
earliest occur-rence-oral or even written-is wholly simultaneous with narrating, and the
distinction between them is less one of time than of aspect: narrative designates the
spoken discourse (syntactic and semantic aspect, according to Morris's terms) and
narrating the situation within which it is uttered (pragma-
Linguistics, trans. Mary Elizabeth Meek (Coral Gables, FIa.: University of Miami Press, 1971), p. 206; Pier, "Diegesis," in
Encyclopedic Dictionary of Semi-otics, ed. T. A. Sebeok et al. (Berlin: Mouton, 1986); and Sheridan, trans figures of Literary
Discourse, p. 138.]
^'Frontiers of Narrative," pp. 137 ff. [See below. Chapter 15.]
1-4

||tic aspect). In fiction, the real narrative situation is pretendedv^S. jto-and this pretense, or simulation
(which is perhaps the'^B fbest translation of the Greek mimesis), is precisely what de-J^K |fines the work
of fiction. But the true order is instead some-| ^B 11 |thing like narrating <^ s or^ . with the narrative act
initi-H * Iating (inventing) both the story and its narrative, which are| ^J Hthen completely indissociable.
But has a pure fiction ever^ ^B 11existed? And a pure nonfiction?| |^B iThe answer in both cases is
obviously negative, and the"' v^H: ; ||semiautobiographical text of the Recherche illustrates fairly^^H
Hwell the mixture that forms the standard fare of our narra-^ |^B' tives, literary or not. Nonetheless, the two
pure types can bel| ^H tconceived of; and literary narratology has confined itself a^ ^B | ;little too blindly
to the study of fictional narrative, as if as a| ^B 11 ;matter of course every literary narrative would always
beu ^B
Ipure fiction. We will return to this question, which at times isjj ^B j
Ivery definitely apposite. For instance, the typically modal| ^R 4
Iquery "How does the author know that?" does not have thejj ^f '\ |same meaning in fiction as in nonfiction.
In nonfiction, thei'jl^B
I:historian must provide evidence and documents, the auto-Jil^B
|biographer must allege memories or secrets confided. In fie-l|l^B lIlH | ition, the novelist, the storyteller,
the epic poet could oftenl|l^B •ll^l rreply, off-fiction, as it were, "I know it because I'm making it^[^B ^
.^^B 'up. "\ say off-fiction as we say off-mike, because in his fiction, ori^H ^^^^B
Iat least in the normal and canonical system of fiction (the onell^BI ^I^^^H
Ichallenged by Tristram, Jacques Ie fataliste, and a number ofII^B ^-i^^^^l modern narratives), an author is
not supposed to be makingII^B lllll^^^B up, but reporting. Once again, fiction consists of that Simula-II^B
'^^l^^^B ;' |As for the term narratology, its use presents another pecu-il^B1 '^III^^^^H iliarity, at least an
apparent one. We know that modern narra-II^BI' ^l^^^^^^l ^ Itive analysis began (with Propp) with studies
that concernedIB^BBfc '^l^^^^^^l ; \the story, considered (as much as possible) in itself and with-IB^^B^^
••• •i1!^^^^! • - ,out too much concern for the manner in which it was told-It^BB®^"; " ' • • ' ''^^^^^^^1

told or, indeed (for film, comic strip, roman-photo,3 etc.),

transmitted by an extranarrative medium (extranarrative if
one defines narrative stricto sensu, as I do, as a uer&a/ transmis-
sion). We know also that at present that field is still fully
active (see Claude Bremond, the Todorov of the Grammaire du
Decameron, Greimas and his school, and many others outside
France). Moreover, it is only very recently that the two types
of study parted company: "Introduction a I7 analyse des recits"
by Roland Barthes (1966) and the "Poetique" of Todorov
(1968) were still straddling the fence between the two.4 Ap-
parently, therefore, there is room for two narratologies, one
thematic in the broad sense (analysis of the story or the narra-
tive content), the other formal or, rather, modal (analysis of
narrative as a mode of "representation" of stories, in contrast
to the nonnarrative modes like the dramatic and, no doubt,
some others outside literature).
But it turns out that analyses of narrative contents, gram-
mars, logics, and semiotics have hardly, so far, laid claim to
the term narratology,5 which thus remains (provisionally?) the
property solely of the analysts of narrative mode. This restric-
tion seems to me on the whole legitimate, since the sole spe-
cificity of narrative lies in its mode and not its content, which
can equally well accommodate itself to a "representation" that
is dramatic, graphic, or other. In fact, there are no "narrative ,
contents." There are chains of actions or events amenable to ]
any mode of representation-the story of Oedipus, which )
Aristotle more or less credited with the same tragic quality in ' I^H^Magazine with love stories told in photographs.] (
Seymour Chatman's Story and Discourse (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, t
^yS), Gerald Prince's Narratology (The Hague: Mouton, 1982), and Shiomith ii
Rimmon's Narrative Fiction (London: Methuen, 1983) have, I would say, gone - d
back to straddling it, in the manner of an a posteriori didactic synthesis, ti
The only claim made to it, so far as I know, is the one set forth by the title v
(and content) of Prince's book Narratology and spelled out in his article "Nar- d
rative Analysis and Narratology," New Literary History 13 (1982), 179-188.

narrative form as in dramatic form-and we call them "narra-^H tive" only because we encounter them in a
narrative presenta-^H tion. This metonymic slippage is understandable but very ill^•1 advised. I would
therefore readily argue (although without^B i any illusions) for a strict use (that is, one referring to mode)
not^fJ: only of the (technical) term narratology but also of the word, ^^ • narrative, both the noun and the
adjective.6 The way the word^St' has been used has, on the whole, been reasonable until now,| ^^•1 3 but
for some time it has been threatened by inflation.( ^fl,
My use of the word diegese [diegesis], partly proposed as an^K equivalent for histoire [story],7 was not
exempt from a mis-; ^St understanding that I have since tried to correct.8 Souriau\ ^^B ^flB proposed the
term diegese in 1948, contrasting the diegetici|^R 1 ''fl^B > [diegetiquel universe (the place of the
signified) with theW^B ^^^^^1 screen-universe (place of the film-signifier). Used in thatll^B -II^^^B '
sense, diegese is indeed a universe rather than a train of eventsi^H '^ifl^^^l
(a story); the diegese is therefore not the story but the universell^B -i^^^^B in which the story takes place-
universe in the somewhat|^|| < '^ifl^^^l
This indicates how disturbed I am by the use of the word as exemplifiedII^Bi ^.I'^^^^^^^^l by a title like Syntaxe narrative des
tragedies de Corneille (by Thomas PavelIj^BI • ..•llHH^^^^^^I
[Paris: Klincksieck, 1976]). To me, the syntax of a tragedy cannot be anythingll^l '^lll^^^^^^^^^l but dramatic. But perhaps we should
set aside a third level, an intermediate1l^^^fc^^;l--.:^t^'s»:ll|^^^^^^^^^^^^^B one between the thematic and the modal, for studying
what one might call in; ^H^^ • • ' _V|^^^^H^^^^^^^^^I
Hjelmslevian terms the form of the (narrative or dramatic) content: for example,: the distinction (to which I will return in a moment)
between what Forster^^H^^^^^^^^Hll^^^^^^^^^^^^l calls story (episodic, of an epic or picaresque kind) and plot (knit together,
of^^^l^^^^^^fflH^^^^^^^^^^^^^I the Tom Jones type) plus the techniques belonging to each., ^^^^^^^^HH^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H
Narrative Discourse, p. 27, note. (All further references to Narrative Dis-^^^^SSSSSBS^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ course will include only
the page number unless the possibility of confusionIB^^^^H^HI^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^B exists.) "Partly," because a more precise
definition appears in [the FrenchH^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^l index to] "Discours du recit" on page 280. [Diegetique is the only
term definedi^^^B^^^U^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^I ; in the French index. Its definition is as follows: "As currently used,
thei^^^^^B^^^H^^^^^^^^^^^^B diegesis (diegese) is the spatio-temporal universe designated by the narra-
K^^^^^H^H^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^I tive; in our terminology, therefore, in this general sense diegetique =
'thatjfi^^^^^^^l^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H , which has reference to or belongs to the story'; in a more specific
sense,I^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^B
^Palimpsestes (Paris: Seuil, 1982), pp. 341-342. Cf. Pier, "Diegesis."Ill^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^l

limited (and wholly relative) sense in which we say that Sten-

dhal is not in the same universe as Fabrice. We must not,
therefore (as is too often done today), substitute diegese for
histoire, even if [in France], for an obvious reason, the adjec-
tive diegetique is being thrust forward little by little as a sub-
stitute for the term historique [both the adjectival form of the
word for "story" and the word meaning "historic"]; that use
of diegetique, however, would produce an even more burden-
some misunderstanding.
Another misunderstanding results from a telescoping of
the terms diegese, as we have (re)defined it, and diegesis. Di-
egesis, a term we will come upon again, sends us back to the
Platonic theory of the modes of representation, where it is
contrasted with mimesis. Diegesis is pure narrative (without
dialogue), in contrast to the mimesis of dramatic representa-
tion and to everything that creeps into narrative along with
dialogue, thereby making narrative impure-that is, mixed.
Diegesis, therefore, has nothing to do with diegese; or, if one
prefers, diegese (and I had no hand in this) is by no means the
French translation of the Greek diegesis. Things can get com-
plicated at the level of adjectives (or, alas! of translation: the
French and Greek words unfortunately neutralize each other
in the single English word diegesis, whence such bloopers as
Wayne Booth's).9 For my part, I (like Souriau, of course) al-
ways derive diegetique from diegese, never from diegesis; oth-
ers, like Mieke Bal, freely contrast diegetique with mimetique,
but I am not answerable for that offense.
The idea of minimal narrative presents a problem of defini-H ^|tion that is not slight. In writing that "J walk, Pierre has
come H ^Bare for me minimal forms of narrative/"10 I deliberately opted ^1 ^HsWayne C. Booth, The Rhetoric of
Fiction, 2d ed. (Chicago: University of ^B ^_Chicago Press, 1983), p. 438, note. iopage 30; for suspicious readers, I
specify that "Pierre has come" is not a ^B ^Hsummary of Melville's novel, nor "I walk" a summary of Les Reveries du
^^1 ^^Hpromeneur solitaire. H •IS

Introduction for a broad definition, and I still do. For me, as soon as there is an action or an event, even a single one,
there is a story because there is a transformation, a transition from an earlier state to a later and resultant state. "\
walk" implies (and is contrasted to) a state of departure and a state of arrival. That is a whole story, and perhaps for
Beckett it would already be too much to narrate or put on stage. But obviously fuller, and therefore narrower,
definitions exist. Evelyne Birge-Vitz con-trasts my "Marcel becomes a writer" with a definition of story requiring
very much more: not only a transformation but also a transformation that is expected or desired.11 We may note
inverse specifications (a transformation that is feared, as in Oedipus ends up marrying his mother), but it is certainly
true that the great majority of narratives, popular or classical, require a specified transformation, one that is either
gratifying (Marcel finally, after so many mistakes, becomes the writer he had originally hoped to be) or disappointing
(that is, perhaps gratifying in the second degree, for the reader and, who knows, perhaps even for the hero: Marcel
becomes a plumber). In any case, to my mind these forms that are specified and therefore already complex are those,
let us say, of the interesting story. But a story need not be interesting to be a story. Besides, interest-ing to whom? I
walk is no doubt interesting only to me-and yet maybe not; or, rather, it depends on the circumstances: after a month
in a hospital, it could be a miracle. But, con-versely, I know people from whom the specified narrative Marcel finally
becomes a writer would draw only a lackadaisical "Good for him." It seems to me, therefore, that we must distinguish
the degrees of complexity of a story-with or without complications, peripeteia, recognition, and denoue-ment-and
leave it to genres, epochs, authors, and publics to
"Evelyne Birge-Vitz, "Narrative Analysis of Medieval Texts," Modern Lan-guage Notes 92 (1977); see Palimpsestes, p. 280. As for
those who find the summary more limited than the work it sums up and who therefore blame a reduction for being reductive, I really
have no answer to give them.

^HIntroduction ^Bchoose among them. Aristotle more or less did that and so ^Hdid E. M. Forster,12 with his famous
distinction between story ^H("The king died and then the queen died") and plot (". . . of ^|grief"). There are times and
places for story; there are times ^1and places for plot. There are even, added Forster, places for ^Bmystery: "The queen
died, no one knew why." My minimal ^Hnarrative is undoubtedly even poorer (but poverty is not a ^Bvice) than the
story according to Forster. Nothing more than ^H"The king died." That, it seems to me, is enough for a head- ^ ^Hline.
And if the crowd wants details, it will have them. ^__"E. M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel (New York: Harcourt, Brace
& World, ^H1927), pp. 31 and 82 [rpt. 1954, pp. 15-16 and 52]. Cf. Rimmon, Narrative ^^HFiction, pp. 15-19. «,,